


Outer Dark: A Pornographic Fever Dream

by ahab2692



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek and Stiles are inevitable, Dream Logic, F/M, Gen, M/M, Scott is a confused puppy, Scott's more observant than he seems, Stiles is a good friend, Surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahab2692/pseuds/ahab2692
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s inevitable, Scott knows that now. Stiles and Derek will happen one way or the other. The only question left is how much blood will be spilled between now and then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outer Dark: A Pornographic Fever Dream

**I.**

It rides in fast - can’t come any quicker it seems - and it’s all too much at once: white flashes of pain, fazing out into the rapid spread of ethereal warmth from the back of his nasal cavity down through his throat and into his stomach, blossoming into the tingling sensation that generally accompanies the ingestion of drugs. 

It’s the flower, Scott knows, lying crushed beneath the sole of his shoe, viridian stem leaking droplets of moisture into the powered soil still damp from the morning dew. He remembers the smell, the burst of blue dust shooting up to elicit a sneeze. Remembers the taste of cherries and the way his mouth watered at the flavor and the tide of memories brought back from days of childhood play, and he remembers the sound of his wolf’s purr; contented for the first time in what feels like aeons.

He’s in the passenger’s seat now, head lolling back and to the left, drool coming out the side of his mouth in a steady drip. He feels Stiles’ hand on his neck, lifting his head, wiping away the spittle. The Jeep kicks to life, and he feels the thrum of the engine starting like a jolt to the very essence of his being.

A soft whimper slides out of him, entirely unintentional, and he hears the frantic pitter-patter of Stiles’ heartbeat as they pull into reverse, leave this place behind as they skitter out onto the road.

“....sick,” Scott hears, and that’s Stiles talking now; on the phone with Derek, no doubt. “I don’t know what it was, some plant. Blue petals, really bright color. It shot some shit out at him, and he’s seriously tweaking out on me...”

Scott feels a wave of nausea, and he must have started heaving at some point because Stiles’ hand is cupped under his jaw, fingers curled up against his cheek, firm but shaking.

“I don’t _know_ what it was! _That’s_ why I’m calling you!...Come on, please. You have to at least-”

The Jeep goes over a bump in the road, and Scott’s vision whites out. He swims for a moment to the surface of consciousness - his friend’s voice echoing loudly and rolling around in the back of his head - and then he’s falling into shadow, slipping away into deep sleep.

And he dreams.

 

**II.**

He’s come unstuck from the real, and he’s somewhere above the earth, just looking down from the California sky at the park below. There’s gravel in the sandbox, and 10-year-old Stiles is shoveling dirt and grass into his bucket with a plastic scoop, yelling across the way to tell him how big his castle is going to be.

Scott’s on the ground now, and he can see himself, too; his 10-year-old doppelgänger sitting wide-eyed and shaggy-haired in the midst of the dandelions and fresh cut grass beside the square red planks of the sandbox. The boys are chattering away, high voices and grubby hands, and they’ve got the look that’s long since disappeared: the excitement for things to come, a sense of wonder in regards to the world.

That’s rare to come by in these strange times.

Looking at his and Stiles’ younger selves, he’s struck by the naivety of it all: the way they’d play, imagine themselves to be anything and everything. The way those summer days were spent tripping through the brambles of the forest and getting sunburned in the field behind the high school, talking about how they’d be interesting and popular and cool when they grew older, and returning back to Scott’s house to build forts out of couch cushions and steal chocolate chip cookies from the painted jar on the counter by the phone. 

And some years later, the way they’d wistfully fantasize about finding a way to hook their parents up. So they could be brothers for real.

The vision fades and gives way to something new: enter Allison, raven-haired and tall and beautiful, the splitting image of everything he could ever ask for and everything he knew he could never have.

Except he _could_ , and he _does_ , and he sees himself now, tremor running up his spine as the wolf takes hold and they fall back together on the endless sea of cotton sheets.

Allison smiles, radiant and gorgeous, and she reaches up to run her hands through his dark hair, looks at him like he’s the only other person in the world. “I’m ready,” she whispers, eyelids fluttering.

Scott swallows, hands coming down on either side of her head, framing her in place. “This is a dream,” he says slowly, uneasily. 

“I’m still ready,” she replies, and her legs splay open for him, wide and pale and slicked down with a thin sheen of sweat. And she’s not _quite_ Allison anymore: still beautiful and still smiling, but somehow terrifying and not really herself. 

And as Scott’s hands move to run down the sides of her neck - to peel open the folds of her shirt and leave her naked and willing and _his_ \- her smile becomes sharklike, teeth turning into razors. And he jolts back, heart hammering, and the figure that is not quite Allison crumbles into dust, blowing away with the wind and scattering amongst the leaves.

The leaves are brown and gold, and they stick to his jeans like scattershot gnats in the summer. And he’s in the forest now, and Stiles is at his side.

“He’s killing people, Scott,” Stiles says, and he’s pleading, begging to be understood, eyes open and earnest and dark in color. “He’s _killing_ them. It’s an easy decision.”

Scott rises to his feet, brushing away the leaves from his pants. He shakes his head, feels a lump rising in his throat. “Do you hate him that much?” he asks, pained. “Do you hate him so much that you don’t think he’s worth saving? You don’t even want to _try_?”

There’s a rushing noise, like the air being sucked out of a vacuum, and then the light of the sun is obliterated into crushing darkness. The woods are illuminated by millions of tiny fireflies, all buzzing about soundlessly and drifting through the empty space. A cloud of the glittering bugs swarms around Stiles’ chest, and their light glows in soft patterns across his face. “If he was going to change, he’d have done it by now.”

A nearby tree dissolves: bark splitting into twisted pieces. And the pieces sprout legs, become grasshoppers, all piled together and digging in the soil. One lands on Scott’s shoulder, cleans its legs and chirps noisily in his ear. Scott flicks it away. “You don’t know that,” he says. “We can still save him.”

The swarming cloud grows thicker, rises to block Stiles from Scott’s line of sight entirely. “We can’t,” the voice echoes. “He’s lost to us.”

And then they’re at school, standing in the classroom in a congregation of desks. Stiles is circling Erica, and she’s stripped down to nothing, standing still in the center of the room in a frozen pose, smirking at Scott like she’s won the lottery.

“We could work with this, right?” Stiles asks absently, taking his hand and running it through Erica’s hair. The strands shudder, twitch in an arrhythmic seizure, and the color darkens: turns strawberry blonde. Stiles hums in approval, looks at Scott and raises an eyebrow. “Close enough, don’t you think?”

Scott bites his lip. “Accepting what you can get because you can’t get what you want?”

Stiles lifts his other eyebrow, makes a puzzled noise. “What makes you think you know what I want?”

He returns to his task, raises a hand and touches it to Erica’s breast, runs it down her chest to her stomach, and further down still. She stands quietly throughout, still and lifeless as a mannequin.

The floor wobbles, tilts. And Scott finds himself sliding down into the opening of a velvet-floored tunnel at the end of the hall. And he’s encased in gelatin, looking out at his bedroom from his closet, hidden behind a thick layer of sickly yellow glue. He sees the shadows of people moving around, can hear muffled voices.

He sticks his hand straight through the gunk, peels it away and steps inside with a sharp breath. His mother is there, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. Stiles’ father is by the window, looking out, expression pensive.

“He won’t stop lying,” the sheriff murmurs. “He won’t tell me the truth.”

Melissa looks up at Scott, mouth turning upwards at the corners; a sad smile. “Neither will he.”

Scott feels the prickling of tears stinging at his eyes. “I want to, Mom,” he croaks. “I want to, but I have to keep you safe.” He looks at Stiles’ father, shivers in the breeze from the window. “So does he.”

The adults look at each other knowingly. “Oh, to be young,” Melissa sing-songs. “To know it all, to be so sure.”

“To carry the weight of the world and make like it’s naught but a feather,” the sheriff agrees. “The sins of youth.”

Scott feels a cold hand on the back of his neck, turns to see Jackson standing behind him, frozen midway through his transformation process.

They’re underground. In a cave, it seems. And long arms of alabaster are stretching up from the emptiness below, gripping hold of Jackson’s legs and dragging him down into the dark.

“Let me help you,” Scott whispers. 

Jackson’s mouth contorts into a grotesque grin: a hideous fusion of his typical smug look of entitlement and the sinister glee of a reptilian predator. He rasps wordlessly, and his elbows scrape up blood and skin on the rocks as the disembodied arms pull him further, deeper.

Scott reaches out, grabs his hand. “Please...”

There’s a momentary pause - all of the sound in the world drowned out by the deadening silence - and then Jackson’s hand jerks away. He slips off into shadow, and then he’s gone.

There’s a rumbling beneath Scott’s feet, and the floor opens up in spiderweb cracks, crumbling away to reveal the foyer of the burned down hovel Derek calls a house. And his heart lurches as he sees the two of them sprawled out on the ground: Stiles and Derek, naked and writhing on the floorboards, gasping and panting and sweating.

Stiles looks up at Scott over Derek’s shoulder, mouth dropped open in an O-shape, eyes sparkling with mischief. “He really _fucking_ hates me,” he laughs, and his eyes roll back in his head as Derek thrusts forward in vicious rhythm, lets out a throaty groan, obscene.

Derek’s tattoo is practically alive, and it seems to move with the muscles of his back, turns wet with sweat as he pounds deeper and harder, hands gripping hard at Stiles shoulders, fingernails digging into the tender skin.

Scott closes his eyes, shudders, and when he opens them again, he finds that he _is_ Derek. Or that he’s seeing through Derek’s eyes, unable to control himself as his cock drives in deeper, as he feels Stiles clench around him, hears the frantic scrabbling of desperation and lust growing into a meaningless cacophony of white noise.

“Mine,” he growls out, and it’s Derek’s voice coming out of his mouth. “ _Mine_. Say it.”

“Yours,” Stiles agrees, whimpers. 

They’re on the bed now, and Derek’s fingers are sliding away from Stiles’ shoulders, running over his chest and down his stomach, back up his sides, up to his neck and his cheeks. Memorizing everything. He leans in, nose pressing up into Stiles’ armpit, craning his neck higher to lick at his ear. 

Stiles twists his neck to the side, and now they’re kissing. And his lips taste like cherries and Coca-Cola and peppermint gum. 

Derek growls, low and deep and resonant, and his eyes blaze red and hot, and his cock spasms inside Stiles’ body, pumping furiously, emptying until everything is spent. Stiles’ eyelashes flutter, drop closed. They’re both breathing hard, erratic and hitching. Lying there intertwined in the sheets, flesh clinging together, practically melding.

The stars come out, and Scott finds that he’s now standing in an empty field in the bright of day. The world is alive with color, flowers blooming up golden and soft all around his feet. Except when he looks to the sky, he sees that the moon has taken place of the sun, even in the fullness of daylight. And the yellow flowers are splattered red with the blood, with the remains of massacre.

He sees Allison first, torn to shreds, pieces of her body scattered all about. Her intestines are hanging out of her torso in tatters, and Scott feels his chest heave, wants to retch in the bushes but can’t bring anything up. He sees Chris Argent, slowly bleeding out with his back pressed up against the trunk of a tree, jaw set, expression grim. He sees Isaac and Boyd, stiff with rigor mortis, bullet holes peppering the expanses of their bare chests.

And at the center of it all, he sees Stiles and Derek, drenched in red, staring into each others eyes, hands locked together. They look to the sky, and Scott looks with them. The moon evaporates, shatters like glass and reduces to particles of sand. The world grows dark and cold and the light gives way to utter blackness.

And then there is nothing left at all.

 

**III.**

 

Scott jolts awake, gasps for breath, eyes wide and panicked.

“Woah! Holy shit...” Stiles scrambles over, grips him by the shoulders. “Dude, it’s okay. You’re fine. You’re _okay_. You’re safe now.”

Scott blinks hard, panting hard and trying to steady his heartbeat. He looks around and sees that they’re at Stiles’ house. He’s lying in Stiles bed, stripped down to his boxer shorts. His clothes are folded in a neat pile on the surface of the desk, and there’s a plastic wastebasket sitting at the side of the bed. Scott breathes in deep, picks up the scent of his own vomit rising from the bin. He swallows thickly, grimaces at the taste of iron and bile. “What happened?” he says after a minute. “What...I mean-”

“You were poisoned,” Stiles says, and he’s scooting away now, relieved that Scott is lucid and awake. “Like, not _poisoned_ poisoned. Nobody tried to do you in, or whatever. But you, well, you know. Uh, do you remember the woods? The plant?” He pauses. “We were trying to find Jackson, and you stepped on this freaky flower. Ringing any bells here?”

Scott frowns, eyebrows knitting together in the middle. He rubs his forehead, sits up slowly. “Yeah, I think so...”

Stiles breathes out a quiet sigh, slinks his arm over Scott’s shoulders, rubs his back. “Good. That’s good.” He pulls away, steps off the bed. He lets out a nervous little chuckle. “You had me really worried, buddy. Derek said the best thing to do was keep your body temperature down and let the effects wear off, but I-”

“Derek was here?” Scott interrupts. He studies Stiles carefully, expression unreadable.

“Umm, no. I called his cell and explained what was going on.” Stiles gives him a weird look, questioning. “I figured if anyone would know what to do, it would be him.”

Scott looks away, nods.

 

**IV.**

 

One hour later and they’re back in the Jeep, going on their way to meet Allison. Ready for another go at tracking Jackson down.

Stiles keeps looking over at him, quick glances, concerned. Scott just stares at the radio, exhausted.

“You know, if there’s anything you want to talk about...” Stiles starts slowly. He chews on his lower lip, scratches his neck uncomfortably. “I mean, I’m here for you. Obviously. Just tell me what I can do.”

A car comes by on the left, brights blaring the windshield as they pass around the bend. Scott closes his eyes, looks out the passenger’s window, blankly examines his expression in the side mirror. “You already do enough,” he murmurs.

He feels more than sees Stiles frown, his confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Scott shrugs. “Just what it sounds like, man. You already do enough. More than you should, honestly.” He glances over, takes in Stiles’ bafflement. “It isn’t fair to you.”

Stiles’ eyebrows nearly disappear, skyrocketing upwards. “Dude...what the hell _happened_ while you were out of it?” He laughs nervously. “You’re acting like you just had a near death experience and had some sort of ‘profound revelation,’ or something.”

Scott smiles, in spite of everything, feels his mouth slanting at the side in wordless appreciation. “Nah. Just...yeah, I dunno. I’m just saying. You do plenty.”

The sky is cloudless tonight, open and dark and peppered with stars. Beautiful.

 

**V.**

They stop at the meeting place, and Stiles grabs hold of Scott’s arm as he starts to step out of the side door. “Look, not to be a pest, but...are you _sure_ we don’t need to talk about anything?”

Scott looks at him, thinks for a moment.

Of course there are things that could be said. Namely, _You don’t belong to him. You don’t belong to anyone. You’re not a thing._

Or maybe, _He’ll ruin you. You’re already prepared to kill someone, and Derek will just make that side of you stronger, darker._

And even the sicker part of him wants to say, _You belong to me_. 

But instead he just forces a smile and tosses a playful punch to Stiles’ shoulder. “Definitely sure. There’s nothing to say.”

They climb out and shut the doors, and Allison comes up the dirt path to greet them at the head of the trail leading into the forest. Scott allows her to pull him into a bone-crushing hug, does his best not to let his emptiness show. And even after she steps up on her toes to give him a kiss, he can still taste the lingering flavor of cherry on his lips.

All together, they start down the path, Stiles at the head of the group.

It’s inevitable, Scott knows that now. Stiles and Derek will happen one way or the other. The only question left is how much blood will be spilled between now and then.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, I just wanted to write a story from Scott's perspective detailing his fears and anxieties surrounding everything that's happening in Season 2 (with a little Sterek twist, of course). Of course, since I'm a weirdo, I decided to tackle that idea using dream logic instead of looking at it straightforward. Hope it was somewhat enjoyable.


End file.
